Read Sprout for Free Online Page B

with first names. Okay, Daniel?”
    I put the dictionary on the floor. Sometimes definitions don’t help much. (For example: do you have any idea what a thermotype is based on what I just told you? I don’t, and I’m sure not about to splash acid on my face to see if it takes a picture.) Mrs. Miller’s “I’m not your teacher” left me similarly unenlightened, and all I could do was stare at the bottle of tequila. I mean, even my dad doesn’t drink tequila at 11:30 on a Monday morning. He drinks whiskey, but that, to borrow a phrase from Mrs. M., is a whole ’nother story.
    “Uh, it’s Sprout.”
    “Sprout.” Mrs. Miller glanced at my hair, then followed my eyes to the bottle. “Yes, Sprout, it’s true. Teachers are human too, surprise, surprise. Relax, the pitcher’s virgin.” She poured some in a glass and pushed it towards me. “I’ll doctor mine separately.”
    If you’re a virgin-margarita virgin, it tastes a little like a lime rickey. If you’re a lime-rickey virgin, it tastes a little like a limeade with something dissolved in it—a peppermint pattie, maybe, or a Ricola, or several bags of mint tea. Since margaritas aren’t supposed to have any mint in them, this was especially weird, or maybe just gross. Luckily I wasn’t thirsty.
    “Wojadubikowski.”
    I looked at Mrs. Miller, again wondering if she’d had a nip in the kitchen, or maybe an epileptic fit. Her hand was steady enough as she dosed her drink.
    I held up my glass. “De lic ious!” When in doubt, hide behind a compliment.
    Mrs. Miller laughed. “My maiden name. Woy-a-du-bi-kuv-skee.”
    “Oh! Woya, Woya—wha?”
    “Don’t bother. I couldn’t say it myself till I was six. There are some benefits to Miller.” She poked a bendy straw into her drink and took a sip, made a face, half grimace, half smile, and again I wondered if she were having a fit. But:
    “Ooh!” was all she said. “ Ow . Brain-freeze.”
    “So,” her wet voice going all teacherly: “The essay contest is timed. One hour, which means you can write six, maybe eight good pages. The topic is selected randomly, but always falls within certain parameters. ‘If you were president, what would you do?’ ‘If you had a million dollars, how would you spend it?’ ‘If you could invent one thing, what would it be?’ ”
    Oh.
    Right.
    Essay contest.
    I’d almost forgotten about it, what with the novelty of a teacher picking me up at my house and serving me frozen margaritas, virgin or otherwise.
    I have to admit, though, in the two weeks since Mrs. Miller had put the idea in my head, it had grown on me. The truth is, I do enjoy playing around with words (if you’re still reading, you might’ve noticed that). And I was also beginning to think maybe I had something to say. Like, you know: I’m a creep, I’m a loser, I smell like Teen Spirit but I’m beautiful, no matter what they say, and I’m bringing sexy back, yeah! Does that make me crazy? Probably. But now it seemed Mrs. M. was telling me I couldn’t write what I wanted. That I had to discuss a topic someone else picked out. This was starting to sound less like an extracurricular activity, more like, well, school .
    I glanced down at the dictionary, resisted the urge to start leafing through in search of words to hide behind.
    “So, uh, if the topic’s chosen at random, how can I practice for it?”
    Mrs. Miller did a combination sip-and-nod, which almost sent her straw up her nose.
    “A couple things. The first is: ignore the topic. Anything they’ll ask is basically a version of ‘So what do you want to be when you grow up?’ or ‘What formative experience made you realize that the U.S. of A. is the best country on earth?’ You prepare a stock answer to that question and then adapt it to whatever they actually put in front of you.”
    I nodded, being careful of my straw. “Kind of like when a reporter asks the president about the state of health care in America, and he says, ‘Health care